


Vault-wrong (the worst named coffee shop)

by Planet__kid3



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Gen, M/M, One Shot, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2018-12-10 01:23:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11681079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Planet__kid3/pseuds/Planet__kid3
Summary: "In an ocean of big-brand, big-idea coffee shops, it’s far too easy for a tiny back-alley business to be overlooked.Maybe that’s why Lance felt so drawn to the place."Dates aren't important right now, you date your essay after you finish it, and pretend it was finished days earlier. That's the university code. 'Vault-wrong' is a terribly named coffee shop, a frequent haunt of Lance, Pidge and Hunk. Lance always avoids writing his essays until the last minute, maybe this time he's left it a little too late. Luckily a certain mulleted barista is around to offer coffee throughout the night.





	1. An Intro; the worst named coffee shop

 

* * *

 

 

It’s fairly safe to say that most universities don’t have an area of campus that is almost completely desolate, and devoid of the majority of its student population. It's also safe to say that Voltron University was not most universities. Nobody really had a name for VU’s rundown corner, but there was a general unspoken consensus that nobody went there, especially not at night. But hidden away in this rejected corner of campus was the ‘Vault-wrong’ coffee shop, its original owner had clearly had some questionable interior design knowledge, even Pidge could only describe it as “quaint”. But it was still one of the few places which felt like home to Lance.

‘Vault-wrong’ had allegedly existed for nearly as long as the university itself, which was really saying something, since Voltron Uni was rumoured to be ridiculously old. Of course, being situated in one of the most avoided areas of campus, coupled with one of the most disastrous puns of a name to ever be created, meant that Vault-wrong wasn’t exactly the most well-known, or well visited coffee shop, despite its long running history. But there were those that stayed loyal to the little coffee shop, the few frequenters whose visits kept the place alive, Lance, Hunk, and Pidge being among them.

The campus’ three other, newer coffee shops definitely helped keep the business small, too. They were bigger, had more to offer, and fit into the whole ‘hipster’ coffee trend, and if they were too full, well _hey_ , there were Costas and Starbucks’ lining every street outside campus for at least a mile’s radius. In an ocean of big-brand, big-idea coffee shops, it’s far too easy for a tiny back-alley business to be overlooked.

Maybe that’s why Lance felt so drawn to the place.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes, okay, well, that was the intro to my first fic. Hoping whoever decides to give this their time likes it so far, and also thank you for reading this far! lol
> 
> Couple quick things:  
> I've wanted to write a fic for a while now, so here it is.  
> This is my first proper fic, so I'm very open to any suggestions you have about how it could be improved & parts of it you didn't enjoy.
> 
> Welp, yeah, thanks for reading so far and I hope you enjoy the rest!


	2. Coffee refills and unwritten essays

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance tries writing his essay in the Vault-wrong coffee shop. An interaction with Keith doesn't go exactly how Lance would have liked.

 

Lance stares at the blank, glaring white page on his laptop screen, and then to the blue-speckled mug of black coffee to the left of him. He looks back to his laptop, and then back to his coffee. This happens again, and then another time, and then Lance doesn’t look at his coffee. Instead he fixes his eyes on the black haired boy working the counter of the ‘Vault-wrong’ coffee shop, _Dios, it should be illegal to hire baristas hotter than the coffee they serve._ Lance knows he should be working, but it’s really hard to finish an essay that you have no real inclination to start, and sometimes the staff in Vault-wrong can be _really_ distracting.

“Lance, I thought you came here to do work, not stare at the guy manning the counter” Pidge’s voice cuts through Lance’s fantasies before they can even begin to manifest, and drags his attention back to the table he’s sat at. “I _am_ doing work” Lance protests, “I’ll have you know I’ve written like, a lot!”

Pidge narrows their eyes at him from behind a second laptop screen and a large pair of round, wire-rimmed glasses, “the only thing I’ve seen you writing is a 1000 word essay, in your head, about how much you love that barista’s ass”

Lance puts his hand over his chest, feigning offence, “Wow, firstly, that barista’s name is Keith, and you know as well as I do that his ass was literally sculpted by the Gods!” Lance pauses, reaching for his coffee before continuing; “and secondly, I’ve totally got this essay down, your lack of belief hurts me, Pidge”

Their stare doesn’t waver, “If you’ve written so much, turn your laptop around and prove it”

Lance lets out a noise that is somewhere between a gasp and a screech, “show you? At this crucial stage?” he clutches his coffee mug to his chest “no way, it isn’t ready to be seen yet, you can’t rush perfection, Pidge.”

“Isn’t that essay due in like, three days?” It’s Hunk that speaks this time, having looked up from writing his essay, pen suspended between the end of his last sentence and the beginning of the next. Hunk always writes the first draft of his essays on paper, he says it helps him focus better, that it stops him from retyping every sentence he puts on a screen, and more intent on just writing what he wants to say first.

“Yeah” Lance replies “8am Saturday! Submitting essays on a weekend? That should be a crime”

“You know, there is such a thing as submitting essays on days _before_ the deadline” It’s Pidge again, they haven’t even looked away from their laptop screen. Lance grins, a facial expression that goes completely unnoticed by the brown haired gremlin, “Pidge, Pidge, if you submit your essays days before they’re due, are you really truly living?”

“Yes” the Pidge and Hunk duo say in unison, “you’re probably living a lot more peacefully, too” Hunk adds.

“Don’t you guys know how to live life on the edge?” Lance asks, taking a long gulp of coffee from the mug that he’s been holding for the past several minutes.

“Lance, I’m living life on the edge every time I tournée a potato” comes Hunk’s reply, “leaving your essays this late all the time? You- you’re playing with fire”

Lance sets his mug down heavily on the table, “it just so happens that I love fire” he grins again, and turns back to his laptop.

 

* * *

 

Following the passing of what feels like an eternity (but in reality has been only five minutes), Lance leans back from the table and stretches his arms out behind him, trying to loosen his back after being hunched over his laptop, and immediately feels his hands collide with a scratchy, canvas-like material. He freezes, and slowly tilts his head backwards, coming face to face with Keith, who is stood unmoving, eyes wide in shock. Lance draws back his arms as quickly as he possibly can, he can feel the back of his neck begin to burn, Keith is still standing there, not saying anything. Lance clamps a hand onto the back of his heated neck, and the black haired barista suddenly turns to them, as though he’s just emerging from a trance. “Do you guys want some more coffee?” he holds up a coffee pot with his right hand. Keith’s voice is deep and smooth, not at all like the rough tones that Lance had been expecting when he’d first seen Keith in _Vault-wrong._ Hunk nods at the barista, smiling, “that’d be good, thanks” Keith begins pouring coffee into the trio’s empty mugs, while Lance stares fixedly at his blaring laptop screen, desperate to avoid any more contact with the other. Eventually Keith walks back to the counter, and Lance looks up to his two friends “did my hands-“

“His Crotch?” Pidge gives Lance an evil grin “yep”

_Oh. Oh no._ Lance’s head sinks into his hands, his face ablaze.

“I guess you don’t love fire so much now” Pidge says, before they and Hunk burst into a fit of giggles.

Hunk places a large hand on Lance’s shoulder, “sorry, bud” he says between his fits of heaving laughter. Lance doesn’t say anything; he bites the inside of his lip and literally glues his burning face to his laptop. He’s not going to so much as move before he finishes _this_ _goddamn essay._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! There's gonna be a lot more Lance/Keith interaction in the next chapter I promise.
> 
> As before, this is the first fic I've properly written, so I'm very open to any suggestions that you have on how it could be improved!
> 
> Thanks for reading my dudes


	3. The best coffee shop code

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance needs to finish this essay, nothing can stop him.

 

One of the best features of ‘Vault-wrong’ was its unconventional approach to closing times. As with most coffee shops, Vault-wrong usually opened around 7am, giving enough time for anyone heading to an 8am lecture to grab enough coffee to keep them awake, whether that was one cup or eight. The shop was _meant_ to close at 9:30pm, but that was rarely the case. This was due to the greatest rule ever to occur in the history of coffee shops. Ever. _The time that Vault-wrong closed was left entirely to the last barista working that night_.  Vault-wrong had to stay open until 9:30pm, it’s scheduled time of closing, but the barista that was working could keep the shop open after that for however long they wanted. So naturally Vault-wrong stayed open until at least 12am on most nights, a small number of stressed and highly caffeinated students scattered among the tables, the barista themselves usually included.

Lance was no stranger to the past-closing-time group of customers. There were a few regulars like himself: the ones whose time management skills were severely lacking, starting and finishing assignments within hours of their deadlines. The appearances of others varied from night to night, the occasional last-minute-ers. Lance loved his late nights at Vault-wrong. It felt like a community. A dysfunctional community of strangers, bonded through the mutual crushing weight of crippling levels of stress.

 

Friday nights at Vault-wrong were usually pretty quiet; it was rare for professors to set deadlines that ended on weekends, allowing the majority of the coffee shop’s late-night customer base to either begin catching up on a week’s worth of lost sleep, or spend yet another sleepless night, this time with beverages containing things slightly more intoxicating than caffeine. Lance’s professor, of course, was an exception to this rule. So, while most students spent their Friday nights doing fun, non-essay related activities, Lance had found himself spending many a Friday night frantically pounding away at the keyboard of his laptop, this Friday night included. Lance hadn’t exactly gotten around to finishing his essay, or… really starting it, either. So, he walked into Vault-wrong at almost exactly 9pm, half an hour before the little shop was due to ‘close’. Relieved to spot a fair number of customers that clearly had no intent on leaving within the next half-hour, Lance took a seat at his regular table, close to the shop’s huge bay window. The table near the window is the best spot. It seats four; enough for Lance, Hunk and Pidge, and their bags, plus the window offers a pretty great view. Vault-wrong was truly a hidden goldmine. On this night however, Lance sits with his back to the view, his eyes glued unblinkingly to his laptop, barely registering the barista as they approach and pour the first of many coffees. It was going to be a long night.

 

11pm. The shop is tensely quiet, the only sound coming from the laptops of the few students still working in Vault-wrong. Lance’s coffee mug has been refilled more times than he’s cared to count, and he hasn’t looked up from his laptop for more than a moment since he sat down. Lance stretches, throwing his arms behind his head and scrunching his eyes tight. He’s been writing for nearly two hours, and still hasn’t made even a few inches of progress. Nothing seems to flow right, and he doesn’t feel happy with anything he’s written so far. Lance forces himself to look back at his laptop. 400 words. How long did that essay have to be? He doesn’t even remember. At this point Lance is just throwing sentences onto digital paper and hoping for the best.

Another hour passes. Gradually, all the other customers pack up and leave Vault-wrong, disappearing into the night, their work finished, or near enough. Lance doesn’t notice. The barista begins cleaning the shop, pushing chairs under tables and wiping down every surface except Lance’s. Still, Lance is engulfed by his work. Nothing remains in his world save for his laptop; Vault-wrong itself has ceased to exist around him. That is, until a soft yet firm “hey” bring Vault-wrong crashing back, and suddenly there’s a barista leaning across the table towards him.

Lance literally jumps upright, launching his chair backwards with enough velocity to send it to space. Lance slaps his hands down on the table in an attempt to both steady himself and look at least slightly dignified. He opens his mouth to let the barista and anyone else in Vault-wrong know that he, Lance, doesn’t usually scare that easily, and stops, having realised two things. One: that there is nobody left in Vault-wrong except for himself and the barista. And two: that barista is Keith.

 

* * *

 

Keith is staring at him now, evidently surprised at Lance’s reaction, and Lance knows he needs to say something, apologise for staying too late, start packing away his stuff, maybe offer to help clear up. But he _can’t._ It’s as though anything that he could possibly say has shrivelled up and died inside his throat. Silence spreads out between them. Eventually, after what Lance is sure must be the turn of the century, the mullet haired barista holds up a large pot of coffee he’s been holding in his right hand “do you, uh, plan on staying for a while?” he asks.

Lance coughs, trying to clear his throat of the words that refuse to move, and his reply comes out in a rush of air “well I mean I’ve got a lot to write for this essay but I can totally leave if you need me to I mean everyone else has already left so I can definitely clear out if you want to close up it’s no big deal.” Keith raises an eyebrow and it takes Lance all of his willpower not to slap himself in the face. _Smooth._

“No,” the barista says, “actually, mind if I join? I have work to do as well.”

Wait. What? Did that just happen? Keith, hot barista Keith, wants to sit with him? _Okay, okay, Lance, play it cool._ Lance flashes his best attempt at a winning grin towards the other boy, and gestures towards the three other empty seats at the table, “not at all, man, go ahead, it’s fine.” Is he talking to much? He feels like he’s talking too much. Keith straightens, setting the pot of coffee down on the table. He walks back to the counter and through a door labelled ‘Staff Only’, leaving Lance to pick up his chair. Keith reappears a moment later, carrying a slim laptop in one hand and a glossy red mug in the other. He pours coffee into both of their mugs before taking a seat.

It takes a while for Lance to relax, he’s far too aware that everything he does is within plain view of the raven-haired boy at his table. Keith didn’t even look up as he sat down, he just opened his laptop and almost immediately started typing. Just like that. Boom, an almost robot-like dedication to the task at hand. Lance wonders if Keith actually _is_ a machine, it would explain a lot of things; not just his solid work ethic but also that solid butt. _Man,_ Pidge was right, Lance really could write a 1000-word essay about Keith’s ass.

_Okay, come on, we gotta focus._ It takes effort, but Lance forces himself out of his Keith-themed reverie and back into the harsh reality of essay writing. Of course he would be gifted with the most distracting company in world the night he tried to write the hardest goddamn essay in the world, and, hopefully, it really would be a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Remember how I said I'd try to post soon? Well, it's been a year. But I'm back! Hope you guys enjoy this very late chapter, as always I'm welcoming of any improvement suggestions. Thanks for reading :)


End file.
